


Underground

by Magfreak



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 16:39:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16747660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magfreak/pseuds/Magfreak
Summary: In search for an adventure, Sybil steals away from her family's London home during her debut season and goes for a ride on the London Underground, where she meets an intriguing young man.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that combines two prompts. One requested a story in which Sybil and Tom meet on the subway. The second asked for a story that takes place during Sybil's season in London in which she already has a beau but has heard head turned by a certain someone.
> 
> In this universe, Tom Branson is a mechanic/chauffeur but he does not work for the Crawleys. Other than that, you can assume that everything that happened to Sybil on the show up to just before her season (i.e. everything through episode six) still happened. She still dressed in the harem pants and she still snuck off to the count, which led to her getting injured. In this case the chauffeur was Pratt, but he is not political and the family did not blame him, as it was obvious that the scheme was Sybil's alone. Her beau is Tom Bellasis, who has been her friend since childhood. This begins a couple of days before Sybil's presentation and a week before her ball.

 

**June 1913**

"Sybil . . . Sybil . . . SYBIL!"

Sybil turned to her lifelong friend, Tom Bellasis, from her chair near a window in the parlor of her family's London home on St. James Square. "What?" She said casually, as if he hadn't been trying to get her attention for several minutes.

"You seem a bit lost is all," he said with a smile.

 _Not lost—bored_ , Sybil thought. But instead of saying anything aloud she simply smiled back.

He'd been watching her for a while, trying to discern her mood. As children and even in their early adolescence, he could read her so easily, but as adulthood neared, she'd grown and changed. She was restless and curious about the world in a way that he knew others found discomfiting. She was no longer an open book to him. In moments like this, it was as if he didn't know her at all, and it worried him.

"Are you nervous?" He asked.

"What do I have to be nervous about?"

Tom smiled. "You're being presented at court on Saturday. I should think you have a great deal to be nervous about."

Sybil laughed and turned toward the window again. "I'm curtseying, not discussing matters of state," she said with a sigh. "The king is just a person. I've been introduced to people before."

Tom laughed. "Heavens, Sybil! It's his majesty, the king of England. You can hardly think he is just a _person_."

She looked back at him with a frown. "Actually, I can. I'll admit, if I must, that he is of a higher station and office than I am, but he is still a person at the end of the day. Physiologically, he is no different from you, and only differs from me in that he is a man. Tom, the moment we begin to think ourselves as fundamentally different from one another is the moment we grant ourselves permission to treat other people as less than human. I suppose as a woman I have a greater understanding of what that means than you."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Sybil don't start on about the vote again."

Sybil turned back to the window. "I haven't started anything. You brought it up."

With a sigh, Tom stood up and walked over to where she was. Sybil looked determinedly out the window, and he smiled at her stubbornness, a trait with which he was most familiar, it having manifested in her very early in life. He kneeled next to her chair and took her hand. "Darling, you know I support you in this, but there is a time and a place for such discussions."

"Somewhere such talk won't actually make a difference," Sybil said with a sad smile.

"And here I thought we'd have a nice morning together," he said.

Sybil forced a smile. "I know. I'm sorry."

She looked into his lovely brown eyes and her expression softened, the smile growing genuine as she remembered that Tom Bellasis, unlike the rest of her family, was patient and kind with her when it came to her love of politics and support of women's rights. He'd also been generous with his education, sharing with her books and essays he'd read during his school days and in his first two years at Oxford. In two more years' time, upon his graduation, they'd likely be married. It had never been spoken aloud between them or their parents, but all lived under the assumption that it would happen. And though she was loathe to admit it, for she cared for him deeply as a friend, the inevitability of it was starting to feel a bit suffocating.

Sybil knew that she was unlikely to find a better match for herself within the boundaries of her parents' expectations. And she knew that he would _try_ to make her happy. What she didn't know was whether he would succeed. Because despite his willingness to indulge her interests, he was happy living within those boundaries, which she had come to find so stifling—he was happy in a way that she knew she would never be. As dear to her as Tom had always been, accepting that she'd be his wife was starting to feel like a concession in a battle she didn't yet want to admit she was losing.

Trying to push those thoughts from her mind, she asked, "Shall we go for a walk? I believe there is an event today at St. George's Church in Bloomsbury that might be of interest."

"What's that?"

"Well," Sybil started slowly, not wanting to show how eager she was to attend. "It's a memorial for Emily Davison, the suffragette who died at the Epsom Derby last year. Today is the anniversary of the event."

Tom sighed. "The fool who ran into the path of a charging horse?"

"She was trying to get people's attention!"

"Sybil—"

"Tom," Sybil interjected, "when someone's asleep, sometimes he'll wake if you merely tap gently on the shoulder, and sometimes, you have to throw cold water on his face."

"That's a forgiving way of describing Pankhurst's methods," he said with laugh.

"Do you want to go or not?" Sybil asked taking her hand out of his.

"I'd love to, darling," he said, standing up, "but I'm afraid I told our fathers I'd join them for lunch at the club."

"All right, then."

He smiled, as she went back to looking out the window. "Why don't you go out anyway? I happen to know that Lady Darlington hosts her own group of suffragettes at the tearoom at Selfridge's for lunch every Thursday. I may or may not have garnered you an invitation."

"What?" She exclaimed, standing.

He pulled a small envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. Sybil took the envelope and turned it over in her hands without saying a word.

"I thought you'd be pleased," he said quietly, a bit disappointed in her reaction.

"I am," she said. "I just . . . I want to do more for the cause than be seen on Oxford Street."

"Think of it this way," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders, "you can show your support for the cause, and your parents won't be put off. It's the best of both worlds."

Sybil smiled, though again it was one that did not quite reach her eyes. But he couldn't tell. Not anymore.

"I should be going," he said, leaning in and kissing her forehead. "I'll see you at dinner tonight."

Sybil nodded and watched him go. She looked down at the invitation again. It _was_ the best of both worlds. The problem was there was only one world she was interested in.

**XXX**

She wasn't especially excited about attending Lady Darlington's tea, but she supposed that staying in the house would do nothing to improve her mood. So it was that a short while later, Sybil left on foot. Her mother had offered to have the chauffeur take her, but Sybil insisted she wanted to walk and Cora didn't want the likely ensuing argument to dampen Sybil's desire to be social with the right people. And indeed, Sybil set off from the square toward Piccadilly with every intention of heading toward Oxford Street, but upon reaching the corner of St. James Street and Piccadilly, she changed her mind.

Sybil waved down a taxi and asked the driver to take her to Selfridge's and to wait at the door, as she would not be staying. She walked into the shop and headed over to the restaurant, where she flagged down a waiter. She asked him to tell the hostess of the women's tea that she'd arrived with every intention of staying, but felt faint on stepping out of the car and decided to go home. She watched from the door into the tea room as the waiter relayed her message. The woman who was presumably Lady Darlington—Sybil had never actually met her—only nodded in response.

That done, Sybil ran back to the taxi and asked the driver to take her to Piccadilly Circus. She knew she could have asked him to take her straight to the church where the rally would take place in Miss Davison's memory, but it occurred to Sybil as she remounted the motor that she'd never been on the Underground before, and having excused herself from what she was sure would be another boring afternoon, she felt the thrill of freedom and thought it was the perfect day for a new adventure.

Although she felt nervous as she rode the lift down to the platform, as soon as she stepped out onto it, excitement began to course through her. She watched with great interest as men and women of all ages, working and middle-class people, walked and talked with clear purpose and direction.

How she longed to be one of them.

Sybil understood that the comfortable and privileged life that she lived was one that people who worked for a living might long for, and she didn't begrudge those who were born with less such longings. Still, the idea of learning a trade, of going to a job, of doing something that helped people in need (beyond donating last season's clothes) sparked Sybil's imagination. Speaking of such things to her family and even Tom, her oldest and best friend, resulted in funny looks and assurances that soon enough those ideas would fade and she would settle into a contented life of charity luncheons and dinner parties.

Tom was more understanding, but despite his best efforts to appease her, she knew he didn't agree. She loved them all dearly, and for their sake she held it in, but sometimes, it couldn't be helped and the energy that came from such wishes had to be acted on. That had been true on the night of the count, and it was true today.

When her train finally came, she stepped on it eagerly and looked around. The car was mostly empty. Sybil moved to grab one of the railings, just as the train lurched forward. The movement caught her by surprise, and she lost her balance and fell onto the floor.

"Are you all right?"

A young man, perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five, walked over from where he'd been sitting at the end of the car and leaned down to offer his hand. Such was the blueness of his eyes that Sybil was caught quite off guard and didn't respond for a few moments.

"Do you need help, miss?" He asked again, a smile forming on his face that did nothing to help Sybil's present inability form words.

"Oh, um, yes . . . thank you," she finally spit out, taking his hand. With his other, he took her elbow so she could lean on him as she got her feet under her again.

"First time rider?" he asked with a bit of a teasing tone in his voice.

"I'm afraid I am," Sybil answered quietly, letting him go now that she had found her footing and grabbing a nearby railing.

"Oh. I was actually joking."

Sybil blushed and looked away, feeling somewhat embarrassed.

"Sorry," he said, somewhat sheepishly.

"For what?"

The young man shrugged. "Making assumptions."

"I should be glad if I don't look as out of place as I feel."

Having shaken the dust off her gloves and skirt, Sybil looked up and got her first real look at the young man who had come to help her. Along with those piercing blue eyes, he had light-brown hair with a few honey-colored strands that she imagined looked much lighter out in the sun than they did now. He was wearing a grey suit and cap that, while very becoming, were obviously not of the fine materials that she was used to seeing on her father.

"Tom Branson," he said, sticking out his hand to shake hers.

She took it with a smile and answered, "I'm Sybil."

He gestured toward an open seat behind her, and Sybil smiled and took it. Though he did not sit next to her, he did not go back to his spot, remaining instead in the middle of the car with his eyes trained on her.

"So if this is your first time riding the Underground," he said, "Can I assume you don't live in London?"

Sybil nodded. "You can. I live up north, in Yorkshire."

"And what are you doing in London, then?"

Sybil hesitated. What could she say that wouldn't scare him away or make her sound ridiculous? Certainly, she didn't want to mention the wretched season.

She finally settled on "visiting family" and in hopes that he would not inquire further when she answered, she quickly followed up with, "And you? You're a long way from Ireland."

He grinned at her recognition of his accent in a way that she found entirely too appealing.

"My brother lives here. I just arrived a month ago. I'm staying with him while I look for work."

"And what kind of work do you do?" Sybil asked genuinely interested.

"Right now, I'm an automobile mechanic. I was a chauffeur for a rich old lady back in Ireland, but the job was a bit boring. She didn't let me drive faster than 20 miles per hour. I'd like to work in politics someday, if I'm honest. At least, I like to think I won't always be a chauffeur."

Sybil laughed. "And no luck here just yet?"

"Not with regards to a job, but things are looking up in other areas," he said with a wink.

Sybil laughed at his obvious flirting, and he looked away smiling, as if the boldness had surprised even him. She liked such confidence. It wasn't often that she met—or was allowed to meet—someone who happily wore his feelings on his sleeve. The reserve and stoicism required of people in her circles was so exhausting to her that she sometimes wondered how they didn't collapse under the weight of so many pent up emotions.

"So where are you off to?" he asked after a minute. "I've been rather selfishly taking your attention. I hope I haven't caused you to miss your stop."

"Oh," Sybil said suddenly startled, realizing that she had not, in fact, been paying attention to where or if the train had stopped. "I'm looking for the Holborn station. I'm going to St. George's Church in Bloomsbury for a women's rights rally."

His already smiling face brightened. "What a coincidence!"

Sybil's brow crinkled. "You're going to a suffragettes rally?"

"Why should you doubt it?"

"I don't know. I _suppose_ you could be telling the truth. Or you could just be saying it because you like my company."

He laughed and raised his eyebrows at _her_ boldness. Sybil sat up a little straighter, proud that she appeared to be having the same effect on him that he was having on her.

"I am telling the truth," he said, still smiling. "I'll prove it."

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small pin that read, "Votes for Women."

Sybil blushed. "That'll teach _me_ to make assumptions."

Tom extended his hand to give her the pin. "Take it," he said

"It's all right," she said. "I don't need to touch it to believe you."

"No, I mean . . . take it," he said more quietly. "I'm giving it to you—unless you already have your own."

"Really?" Sybil said taking it excitedly. "I don't have one, as a matter of fact. My father, um—well, he doesn't have much patience for my politics and wouldn't dare let me have something like this in the house."

He smiled happy at how pleased she was. She immediately set the pin on her lap and took her gloves off so she could place it on the lapel of her coat. In doing so, however, she pricked her finger.

"Ouch!" She exclaimed.

"Here, let me help," he said, and before Sybil could protest, he had taken the pin from her and leaned over to put it on where she had intended. As he did so, he remained focused on his task so he didn't notice right away that their faces were only inches apart. Sybil did, of course, and wondered if he'd be able to notice, as he fastened the pin over her heart, just how fast it was beating under his fingers.

Once he was done he smiled. "There you are," he said, turning his face. It was then that he saw how close they were. He cleared his throat and immediately straightened up.

"Apologies," he said, "that was rather inappropriate of me."

"It's all right," she said quietly, as she ran her fingers over the pin. "Thank you."

They looked into one another for a long moment, but the train coming to a stop pulled them out of it.

"Looks like two more stops to Holborn," he said, gesturing toward the train car doors.

"Would you mind walking with me to the church?" Sybil asked.

Tom's eyes widened. "Not at all."

"You don't have to," Sybil said quickly. "It's only that I've never been there before, and I'd hate to miss it because I got lost."

"And we can't have that."

Sybil smiled.

"Have you been to many rallies before?"

"A few," Sybil answered. "My family doesn't like me going, so I can't as often as I would like."

"Well, if we were all born happy with our station and accepting of the world as it is, that wouldn't make humans a very interesting species, would it?"

"No. It's not that I need them to agree with me about everything—just agree that I'm allowed to be different from them."

"So agree to disagree?"

"Something like that."

"What things are there to do in Yorkshire?" he asked. "Other than sneak away to rallies."

"Not much that's very interesting, I'm afraid. I do so like London in that regard. Full of interesting places to see and interesting people to meet."

Sybil had noticed the phrasing of his question—what was there to do, rather than what do _you_ do. She supposed that even her plainest coat and hat would not have hidden the delicateness of her hands, the clear poshness of her accent. He seemed observant—there was no way he'd mistake her for a working person, but if he'd assumed she was of high birth, he said or did nothing to give that away or suggest that it bothered him. Sybil was grateful for the chance to be only herself.

In truth, Tom Branson had met and worked for people in the peerage before. They were easy to spot, especially when out of their own natural milieu, as she clearly was. That was what had sparked his curiosity to begin with. And as their conversation went on she had only grown more interesting. There was no future in it, of course. He could see that from the moment her lovely blue eyes looked into his from where she'd fallen the dirty floor of the train car. But for a few precious minutes, what would be wrong with indulging himself with the company of a beautiful girl?

"How did you become interested in motors?" Sybil asked.

"When I was young, I was apprenticed to the groom on a country estate outside of Dublin. When the family bought their first motor, he didn't really take to caring for the vehicle, so it fell on me. There was some trial and error, but I enjoyed it."

"Do you like working with your hands?"

"I do," he said, "though I long for a mental challenge every once in a while. If I read my copy of On Liberty one more time, I'm afraid it will fall apart from overuse. Do you like to read?"

"Very much."

"I don't have access to a great deal of books now, but occasionally in my old job I was allowed to borrow one from the house library."

"Did the old rich lady share your taste for John Stuart Mill?"

Tom laughed. "Not at all. The books I was allowed to borrow were mostly novels to pass the time. On Liberty was given to me by my father before he died. It was his copy."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It's been some time now. And you? What do you like to read?"

"I've read mostly novels and poetry, myself," she said a bit sheepishly. "It was only when my—" she stopped short and looked up at him.

"Your what?"

She cleared her throat softly. "I didn't really go to school, but a friend of mine did and lent me some of the books and essays he was given to read once in a while. I know Mill supports women."

Tom looked down at the mention of _he_. She'd been about to call this "friend" something else, something that started with "my." Tom had told himself at the start that it would be nothing, but that didn't keep the sharp dagger out of his heart.

Sybil noticed the change in mood and wished she had not said anything at all. But still hoping that this was not the end of their conversation, she continued on, "Mary Wollstonecraft and Florence Nightingale are favorites of mine."

"I wouldn't guess they would go over well with your kind of people," he said without looking at her.

And there it was. The acknowledgement of the differences hinted at in their dress and manner and way of speaking.

Sybil thought back to earlier in the morning to her conversation with a different Tom.

"My family's opinions are not my own," she said, "but they are entitled to them, just as I am entitled to mine. They are only human. Like all men and women. . . . like you and me."

He turned toward her again at this, suddenly feeling guilty for his momentary anger at her inadvertent revelation that there was a man in her life who was not a random stranger on the Underground. It was silly, really—jealousy. What was there to be jealous of when this was only a chance meeting, a lifetime of adventure captured in a handful of minutes. There would be no tomorrow, she wasn't shoving him off and _he_ wasn't here now.

He smiled again, setting her at ease. "Our stop is coming up."

Sybil smiled and nodded. She put her gloves on again and stood, and together, the two walked over to the doors, so they could step out as soon as they arrived at Holborn station.

After stepping out of the Underground station and onto the street, the mismatched pair made their way to the rally. Sybil asked on the way if he knew who would be speaking (he didn't) and, conscious of what had happened to her at the last such event she had attended, if he thought there might be violence.

"I doubt it," he said. "Unless the police are feeling especially frisky."

"The police?" Sybil said in surprise.

"They're the instigators as often as not, even if they are never blamed for it. It's easier to dismiss an opinion when those who are expressing it can be made to seem barbaric."

"Or foolish," she said quietly, almost to herself.

"What?"

_The fool who ran into the path of a charging horse?_

Sybil remembered Tom Bellasis' words and felt a small pang in her heart.

"Why should we listen to the fool who runs into the path of a charging horse?" She said aloud.

"Exactly," Tom said with a smile. "Miss Davison knew what she was doing. The people had to be made to wake up—"

"So she threw water on them," Sybil finished for him, causing him to laugh lightly.

"In a matter of speaking," he said. "Perhaps you should get up on the platform to speak."

"I hardly have the necessary oratory skills or intellect."

"Maybe not _yet_ , but you seem to have the enthusiasm—that counts for more than you think."

She laughed. "You have more confidence in me, having just met me, than anyone else I know."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

His words and tone caught her off guard. She'd have spoken up to contradict him, but why when he was right?

"It's good that you're here," he continued. "And that you care. You shouldn't let other people tell you different or tell you that you do not deserve to be your own person."

Sybil smiled, though internally a small piece of her heart broke, knowing that this day was likely their beginning and end. Somewhere there was another life to be lived, one that had been planned for her before she knew what any of it would mean.

The crowd was still gathering when they arrived, which allowed them to find a place to stand close to the small platform that had been erected in front of the church. Slowly, more and more people gathered, some holding signs, many of them wearing sashes, all of them solemn but unyielding. Sybil looked down at her pin and felt proud to be in such company. The solemnity of the start of the event soon gave way to motion and activity as the speakers launched into their speeches.

Standing in the warm June sunshine, Sybil felt grateful to be alive. She looked over at her companion. He was watching intently, nodding and clapping every so often. He was remarkably handsome, and yet she was most intrigued by who he could be. He'd given hints as to his background and his current state of employment, but she couldn't help but wonder what the future held for such a man. She thought about what kind of woman he'd marry, surely one as passionate and eager to live life as he.

_Would that I could be such a woman._

After an hour or so of speeches—Sybil had lost her sense of time, listening to the stirring calls for change—the event came to a close and the crowd began to disperse.

Tom took a pamphlet from someone and agreed to attend a meeting with them in the future, then turned back to Sybil.

"May I ask how you came to have an interest in women having the vote?" She asked.

"I'm a socialist and as such believe that the wealth of a nation and its means of production should be owned and shared equally by all people, not just a privileged few. It would be right nonsensical if I thought that, but applied it only to half the population."

Sybil thought for a moment. "It's funny how some people can so strongly oppose that which only makes sense, as you say. The women must have the vote, mustn't they? Why does the prime minister resist the inevitable?"

"Politicians can't often recognize the changes that are inevitable."

"Well, I hope you do go into politics. It's a fine ambition."

Tom laughed. "Ambition or dream? If I do, it's not all about women and the vote for me, nor even freedom for Ireland. It's the gap between the aristocracy and the poor."

"Well, you and I have managed to close a gap of sorts today, haven't we?" she asked, extending her hand.

"We have." Tom smiled, a bit sadly, taking her hand and shaking it. "So this is goodbye, then?"

Sybil sighed. "It's so long."

They held on to one another's hands for a moment, before Sybil let go and turned, heading toward the street, where she intended to hail a taxi. She'd made it to the curb when she turned and saw him still watching her from the spot she left him. She tried to think about the man she'd been raised to believe she'd love for the rest of her life but couldn't make way for the one who'd offered a hand on the Underground merely several hours ago. She realized how little someone like her knew of love, _true_ love.

Without thinking, she ran back to Tom Branson, threw her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss unlike any she'd ever shared with Tom Bellasis. He was startled momentarily, but gave it to it by and by, wrapping his own arms around her waist so tightly that he lifted her clear off the ground. Even when her feet hit the pavement again, she felt like she was floating. After several long minutes, they finally pulled back, both of them out of breath.

"What was that for?" He asked in a whisper, his forehead still leaning against hers.

"For showing me the way here."

"Where's here?"

"Here is the rest of my life."

And just as quickly as she'd pounced on him, she let go and ran away again through the crowd and onto the street.

**XXX**

A few days ago, Lady Sybil Crawley, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Grantham Robert and Cora Crawley, and granddaughter of the Dowager Countess of Grantham Violet Crawley, had been presented to their majesties, King George V and Queen Mary of Teck. She'd curtseyed, walked out backwards (one did not turn her back on their majesties) without stepping on her train, and now she was a young lady out in society. Tonight's ball marked that rite's official celebration. The food had been delicious, the champagne cold and sweet, the music enchanting—everything as it should be in any young girl's dream.

Sybil would be lying if she said she hadn't enjoyed herself at least some on this day. Her sisters, so often at odds, had spent the morning with her to share in her excitement. Her father had allowed her to order a number of new books for the Downton Abbey library and indulged her "overly political" selections with minimal commentary. Tom Bellasis had gone with her on a visit to the British Museum as he'd promised and bought her a lovely pearl broach that was currently pinned on her white dress (beneath which, on the underside of her corset, pressed against her skin, was another, simpler pin that read, "Votes for Women").

So sitting alone in the garden just outside of the grand ballroom where everyone she knew was celebrating her arrival into adulthood and society, Sybil had to admit to herself that if she chose this life, she wouldn't necessarily be unhappy. She would cling to its predictable charms and avoid its nuisances. She would find something useful to do for herself, and the oppressive feeling she sometimes felt of being a painted bird in a gilded cage would likely fade with time. She knew all of that to be true. Just like she _didn't_ know whether choosing a different kind of life would offer any happiness at all.

But she wanted to see for herself. She was sure of it now. More than a week had gone by since her fateful visit to St. George's in Bloomsbury, and the match that had been struck had not only not ceased to burn, it had grown in intensity and heat.

She was at the pinnacle of a life that she didn't want, and despite all efforts to convince herself otherwise, she was more sure than ever than she didn't want it. The descent from this pinnacle would be hard, but it was a journey that she needed to embark on. This was an odd moment to find the resolve to do so, but she had needed to see everything she would miss before she could be sure she was willing to give it all up. She was, and it was all going to start now.

"There you are?"

Sybil turned and saw Tom Bellasis.

 _The first step was always going to be the hardest_ , she told herself.

"I was wondering where you got off to," he said approaching her.

"I'm glad you came to find me. I, um, I have something I want to ask, and I didn't want to do it inside."

"Oh?"

Sybil took a deep breath. "I know that there is, between us, an unspoken understanding about . . . the future."

Tom grinned. "Yes."

Sybil felt as if her heart was in her throat, but she pressed on. "Well, it's something that's always just been there, but there hasn't ever been a question. I've never been asked what I thought, and—"

Tom laughed. "Oh, Sybil!"

"What?"

Before she knew what he was doing, he kneeled in front of her.

"No, Tom, please, this isn't—"

The blood was rushing to his head and he didn't quite hear her words, so he took both of her hands said, "Lady Sybil Crawley, will you do me the honor of . . . "

Tom Bellasis never finished his sentence because when he finally looked into her eyes he saw what he hadn't seen in several years. He saw _her_. And he saw what her answer would have been if he'd asked the question.

_No._

He stared at her, through her, as if looking for a trace of something that hadn't been there for some time. Finally, he looked down at their joined hands and let her go. He stood feeling disoriented.

"Tom, I'm sorry," she said quietly.

"Me too," he said without looking at her. "You should come back inside."

And with that he was gone.

Sybil let out a sob once he was gone and let herself cry for several minutes, not because she was sad but because she was overwhelmed with relief.

**XXX**

**July 1913**

"You wanted to see the new chauffeur, my lord."

Robert Crawley looked up from his desk and turned to his butler. "Yes, indeed. Please send him in."

A young Irishman with piercing blue eyes and light-brown hair with honey-colored strands bounded into the room.

"Come in, come in," Robert said. "Good to see you again. Branson, isn't it?"

"That's right, your lordship."


	2. Chapter 2

Mary smiled as she watched Sybil come into the library and walk toward one of the shelves with a calm expression that belied the tension and acrimony between Sybil and her parents that had kept her in her room for most of the time the family had been back from London. Tension and acrimony that had been in place since Sybil announced to them that Tom Bellasis had proposed to her, and she had declined his offer.

Sybil put the book she was holding back on the shelves, then perused the titles in its vicinity for a few minutes before choosing one and walking over to one of the chairs near Mary and sitting down to read.

"I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to step in here again," Mary said, finally.

"I finished my book," Sybil said airily, not looking up.

Mary smiled again. "I wouldn't have thought you would be one for self-imposed punishment."

Sybil looked at Mary from the side of her eyes. "I'm not. Mama said to stay out of her sight and I'm trying to comply with her wishes. I'd happily take my meals in my room too so as not to bother dressing for dinner, but apparently she does want to see me doing _that_ at least."

"You know she didn't mean it," Mary replied quietly.

Sybil threw her sister a knowing look, which made Mary laugh.

"Well, not for more than a few days. We've been home from London for almost a month!"

Sybil sighed. "I know. I suppose I was trying to avoid everyone's disapproving looks."

"Am I being accused of looking at you in such a way?"

Sybil looked into Mary's eyes and saw the teasing behind the question. "Not any more."

"Fair enough," Mary said. After a moment she added, "It isn't about disapproval so much as . . ."

"So much as what?"

"I just don't understand _why_ you would turn him away. If I was ever sure of anything in my life I was sure that you would be Mrs. Tom Bellasis one day."

"Why were you so sure of that?" Sybil retorted. "Did you ever hear me pine over him? Talk about how much I loved him and looked forward to being his wife?"

Mary looked at Sybil for a long moment before losing away and shaking her head.

"Right. Well, then it shouldn't be a surprise, should it?"

"Sybil, you can't deny that you were close. He was your best friend growing up and even if you hadn't outright agreed to marry him, you knew those were his intentions. He was your beau, and you never said you wanted otherwise—at least until . . ."

"Until I said I wanted otherwise?"

Mary smiled sadly. "You know what I mean."

Sybil smiled too. "I do."

"Your coming out ball just seems an odd time to make such a decision. Why then?"

"He asked me to marry him. Should I have said yes so as not to ruin his evening and then renege in the morning?"

"You could have told him you would think about it."

Sybil shook his head. "No. To be honest, Mary, I didn't even have to answer. He saw my face and knew what I was going to say. I'd been feeling unease about our unspoken understanding before he asked that he didn't really see until that moment. And in that moment, there was no hiding it from him."

"Well, if you had thought of it before, if you knew you didn't want to marry him, why did you wait until he asked. He didn't have to ask the question for you to set him straight."

"Because I _didn't_ know, at least not until—"

"Not until what?"

Sybil smiled and felt her heart swell at the thought of a stranger on the Underground, a rally, a kiss . . .

Mary didn't miss the wistful look in her sister's eyes. Her brow furrowed in concern. "Not until what, Sybil?"

Mary's voice brought Sybil out of her reverie and the stern line of Mary's brow reminded Sybil that the memory could only ever be hers. Nobody in her family would understand, certainly not Mary—at least not now.

"Nothing," Sybil said quietly.

"It's obviously not nothing if a major life decision hinged on it."

Sybil rolled her eyes. "It was nothing. I went out on my own one afternoon while we were in London, and my eyes were opened. I saw what life could be if I lived it independently, and I decided that's what I wanted."

"You could have done that with Tom."

"No. No, I couldn't. He was— _is_ —a dear friend, but he is too much like the things I don't want." Sybil saw that Mary was going to speak up and said, "And if you parrot mama and papa and say that I am too young to know what I want, I'll come over there and smack you!"

Mary couldn't help but laugh. "You would do no such thing."

Sybil laughed too. "Well, not to you, but you can hardly lecture me about life decision considering you turned away Cousin Matthew."

Mary looked away. "I didn't turn him away."

"You didn't accept him even though you wanted to."

Mary sighed. "It's not that simple."

"Well, then you know how I feel."

Mary smiled again. "All right, truce. No more talk of marriages that are not to be."

Sybil smiled. "May I ask one more question . . . is he really going back to Manchester?"

"No, the war's changed that. He's enlisting. So are Thomas and Pratt. Papa doesn't seem to think the war will last long, but it's sure to affect things around here, at least for a while."

"Will Thomas and Pratt be replaced?" Sybil asked.

"I don't know about Thomas, but a new chauffeur was taken on. I believe he started yesterday."

"What's his name?"

"I can't remember," Mary replied. "But if you'd like to find out, we can ask him to take us to that tea room you like in Ripon this afternoon. You can't be a hermit forever."

"All right, then, let's."

**XXX**

**One day earlier**

"I asked Mr. Pratt to write out the schedules of Lord and Lady Grantham, so you'd have an idea of what your regular duties will be," Carson said, as he escorted Tom Branson back down to the servants hall from the library, where Tom had met briefly with his new employer. "His lordship has regular business in Ripon and York, and her ladyship is the patron of several local charities and events, so they are the ones who need the motor most regularly. His lordship's tailor is in York. The dressmaker and cobbler are in Ripon. The boot mender is here in Downton, so the hallboys are usually the ones to deliver the ladies' riding apparel. Lady Mary is the only one who does it with any regularity any more. The young ladies take trips into Ripon now and again, so when your schedule accommodates you will be serving them as well."

"Of course," Tom replied. "Mr. Pratt's note said there were three."

"Indeed," Carson said. "Ladies Mary, Edith and Sybil."

At that last name, Tom stumbled slightly, but caught himself on the railing of the staircase that led to the servants hall. Carson, who had just reached the bottom, looked up, a stern expression on his face. "Are you all right?"

Tom nodded, but his heart was suddenly racing.

_It couldn't be._

"My foot slipped," he said sheepishly, as he made it the rest of the way down. "Sorry. You were saying?"

Carson turned and continued walking. "Yes, the family. When they want to order the motor, they will usually send word to me, and one of the maids or hallboys will come to the garage to pass along the message. It's not uncommon for them to do so directly, if they happen to be outside and passing through the yard. But more often, it will be one of the staff. I trust that you'll have plenty to do with the upkeep of the vehicles and the garage to keep yourself busy otherwise?"

"I do. Mr. Pratt was less particular than I like to be about the cleanliness of the tools so cleaning them and the garage will keep me busy for the foreseeable future."

"Good," Carson said with an approving nod. They'd reached the end of the hall and were standing just inside the door to the yard. "Very well, Mr. Branson. That covers your duties. Mr. Pratt kept his own stores in the cottage, but you're welcome to help yourself from the cupboard here at mealtimes. The rest of us take lunch and dinner together, after the family."

"Is that all?" Tom asked.

Carson looked him up and down. "For now." Then, opening the door, Carson gestured for Tom to step out. Tom tipped his cap to the buyer and moved outside. He rubbed his hands at his sides. His heart still felt like it might pop out of his chest. The words of the butler rang in his ears.

_Ladies Mary, Edith and Sybil._

_Sybil._

_I'm Sybil._

It can't have been more than two hours—three at the very most—that he'd been in her presence. Weeks had gone by, but still he could replay every second of it in his mind. The way she'd looked at him when he'd extended a hand to help her on the train, the excitement in her eyes during the rally, the kiss . . .

_I live up north, in Yorkshire._

He'd applied because he'd needed the job. A Mr. Murray interviewed him in London a few days later and offered him the position on the spot. Less than a week had passed, and here he was. It had happened so fast, he'd barely had time to think. Now, though, as he walked back to the garage, Tom wondered if his subconscious had brought him here, to Yorkshire.

He knew there was no reason to look for her. There was a man in her life, and anyway, how likely was it that her family—for surely they were noble or rich or both—would accept the likes of Tom Branson as her friend. He didn't doubt the sincerity of her stated beliefs in equality, women's rights and all the things they had talked about that afternoon, but even so, she'd been careful not to offer any specifics as to her identity. When she'd introduced herself, he hadn't thought anything of how she'd done it, but in retrospect, it was obvious why she had not given him her family name. The kiss was an obvious sign of an impetuous streak, but at the end of the day, after she'd left him there, stunned beyond belief, she'd gone again without a word.

Even if, here in Downton, he was closer to her than he had been before. What were the odds that they'd ever cross paths again?

"Sybil," he said out loud, standing along in the middle of the garage. Not a terribly common name, but what did he know of the upper classes and what they chose to call their children. For all he knew there were dozens of Sybils scattered across the country's great houses.

Tom rubbed his face with his hands. _Get her out of your mind and get to work, fool_ , he thought.

"And get a life while you're at it," he said aloud, laughing to himself.

**XXX**

**Later**

"I don't remember inviting _you_ ," Mary said as she spotted Edith coming toward her in the entrance hall.

"I invited her," Sybil said coming up behind Edith with a smile. "You don't mind do you?"

Mary rolled her eyes and said, "Branson's outside," as she headed for the door, which William was holding open for them.

Sybil felt something stir in the back of her mind. She fell in step with Edith, behind Mary, as they walked out of the house. "Who is Branson?" She asked. As the words came out of her mouth the motor came into view and the frame of a young man could be seen coming around the side to open the door.

The stirring in the back of Sybil's mind because a fluttering in her heart. She turned to look at Edith momentarily then back to the motor and the young man who was now looking squarely into her eyes. There was something in them. Shock? Recognition?

Sybil would not figure it out because as the blood rushed into her head she could no longer focus on anything, too bright were the lights shining in her eyes. She felt blinded and closed them.

She didn't remember falling, only opening her eyes briefly once again and seeing the faces of her sisters over her. And his.

_It's him._

Then there was only black.


	3. Chapter 3

Sybil woke up before she opened her eyes. She wondered, briefly, if she had been dreaming. If the face that she had seen before she blacked out had been merely a figment of her imagination. She shifted slightly and realized she was in her bed again, in the coat she'd just put on for the outing she'd planned with her sisters.

_How did I get here?_

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, blinking a few times to adjust to the light.

_It wasn't a dream._

She cleared her throat and moved to sit up.

"Darling!"

It was her mother, who was immediately at her side, fluffing pillows and putting her hand on her forehead.

"Are you all right? Should I call for something—tea or some bread? What could have come over you?"

Sybil leaned away from Cora. "Mama, I'm fine."

"You are obviously not fine. You fainted."

Sybil sighed. "I don't know what came over me . . ." Sybil thought for a moment, trying to think of a quick excuse that wouldn't invite further scrutiny. "I ate very little at luncheon since we were going out. Obviously, that was a mistake."

Cora sat back, giving Sybil some room but still looking at her skeptically.

Sybil avoided her mother's eyes and shifted to the edge of her bed so she could pull her coat off. "Mama, I'm fine. I'm embarrassed, rather, but nothing else."

"Well, you're staying in bed for the rest of the day," Cora declared, as she helped Sybil with her coat.

"Mama!"

"No arguments. I'll go ask Mrs. Hughes to bring you a plate of something."

"Very well."

Cora smiled. "Are you sure there's nothing wrong, darling?"

Sybil smiled at her mother's concern. "Yes, I'm sure."

_Nothing physically wrong in any case._

"All right, then, I'll be just a few minutes," Cora said standing up. "I can call Mary and Edith to come keep you company, if you like."

"No, that's all right," Sybil replied, hoping that the quickness with which she did so didn't surprise her mother. The last thing Sybil wanted was to have to keep up any sort of ruse, especially for Mary, who was much better than their mother at detecting when Sybil was being less than perfectly honest.

Cora didn't notice Sybil's shortness and turned to go. She was about to close the door behind her when Sybil thought of something and called her back.

"Mama!"

"Yes?"

"How did I get back up here?"

"Branson was kind enough to carry you up."

With that Cora closed the door, and Sybil plopped back down onto her pillow.

_Branson._

_Tom Branson._

Her socialist crusading angel in a news boy cap.

He was here.

At Downton Abbey.

Sybil brought her hands to her face to rub her eyes and then, after a moment, brought them down so her fingertips rested on her lips.

_That kiss._

_THAT KISS._

Sybil closed her eyes and even now she could have sworn she could still feel it, not just on her lips but everywhere. Her hands continued to move downward until they were over her heart. She would never be able to articulate the reason why, after she'd walked away from him, she turned and launched herself at a perfect stranger. But she had and it had changed everything.

Gone from her life was another Tom, one to whom she had been attached, in one form or another, her entire life. Gone was her father's favor. Gone was her good standing among so-called friends. But Sybil had been glad to be rid of all those things because in their departure, they took with them something else, _expectation_.

On the train ride back north from London, at the end of the season, Sybil had watched the landscape pass by in a blur out her window, like watercolors dissolving as water is splashed on them, her own life now a perfect blank. On the outside, she was being ostracized. Inside, she had never felt more free.

Lying on her bed, she realized her future was no more defined now than it had been the day before, but it was different in one significant way: Tom Branson would be in it.

 _Or would he? What if seeing me again is the last thing he wants? What if he doesn't remember me? What if that day did not affect him at all? What if it did?_ _Is that why he's here? Did he come looking for me?_

Sybil shook her head. She could not control his reaction to the situation. She could only control her own.

Sybil sat up again and asked herself aloud, "Am I happy he is here?"

She looked around the room and caught her reflection in the mirror of her vanity.

She was smiling.

* * *

"Is everything all right, Mr. Branson?"

Tom jerked his head up to see Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper. She was dressed for an outing. He wondered in a panic if he was meant to take her somewhere.

"Are you all right?" she repeated, not unkindly, but clearly starting to wonder.

He smiled sheepishly. "Yes, fine. Thank you."

"Are you sure?" She'd not been convinced, clearly.

He stood abruptly, realizing that he was still on the bench, where he'd sat and put his head in his hands—minutes? hours? a lifetime ago?—after carrying Sybil through the house, after straining every muscle in his upper body not to look at her in his arms, after laying her down gently on her bed, and after being told that, given Lady Sybil's fainting spell, he wouldn't be needed to drive this afternoon after all so he could go back to the garage.

"Pardon my manners," he said, holding his hands behind his back. "I have a bit of a headache is all."

Mrs. Hughes smiled. "No need to be so formal with me, Mr. Branson."

He smiled back. She was good at putting people at ease. It was no wonder the house seemed so well run, even from the perspective of a neophyte like himself. "For my mother's sake, then, if not yours."

"Is she watching you all the way from Ireland?" she said, in a teasing tone.

Tom looked down. "Heaven . . . at least that's where she thought she belonged before she died."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. That was insensitive of me."

"Certainly not," Tom replied.

Mrs. Hughes smiled. When it was not her doing the hiring, she always liked to spend extra time with the new servants at the start to ensure that they'd fit in. Mr. Branson would not interact all that much with the rest of the staff, but she could easily see that he'd not be trouble. He'd been raised well in any case, and that counted for a lot in Elsie Hughes' mind.

"Well, I'm off to the village. Better not dally. I did want to thank you for being helpful with Lady Sybil—Mr. Carson told me what happened."

Tom's mouth went dry at the mention of her name. He swallowed thickly, unsure of what to say. "I hope she's all right," he finally managed to eke out.

"I believe so," Mrs. Hughes said. "Her ladyship came down a few minutes ago and asked that some sandwiches be brought to her. She did not call for the doctor, so it can't have been anything serious."

Tom nodded, feeling his shoulders relax a bit in relief.

Mrs. Hughes smiled to herself and shook her head, which Tom found curious.

"What?" he prodded.

"Oh, nothing. I should be going." She turned to leave, but Tom thought she looked as if she had more to say. She did, for she stopped herself after a step and added quietly, almost as if she was sharing a secret, "Don't be surprised if she comes down to thank you herself."

"Lady Grantham?"

"No, Lady Sybil. She's . . . well, she's different."

Tom could tell immediately that Mrs. Hughes meant this as the highest of compliments and couldn't stop himself from smiling.

With a nod to him, the housekeeper went on her way, shaking her head and laughing at herself.

Because what she saw in his eyes just then couldn't possibly have been what she thought it was— _recognition and agreement_.

Tom watched Mrs. Hughes walk away from the door of the garage until he couldn't see her anymore. Turning back to the large, space he considered his options.

 _What options?_ he thought to himself with a laugh. He needed this job, desperately. And it wasn't like he could waltz into the house, walk up to her room (again) and tell her this was all a big coincidence and ask unequivocally what he was supposed to do now. Stay? Leave? Pretend he'd never met her? Never _kissed_ her?

Leaning against the doorjamb, he closed his eyes and went back to his favorite moment that day.

Not the kiss, oddly enough, though that had been wonderful and all-consuming in its own way.

No, not the kiss.

It was the moment, after she turned, just before she reached him, when he realized without a trace of doubt what she was about to do.

Her eyes in that moment—there was an openness to them, as if she was seeing the world for the first time.

In those eyes, he saw her saying to him, "You and I, together."

In those eyes, Tom saw everything.

_Would that she would show me those eyes again._

He opened his and sighed. He would not leave of his own accord—how could he?—but he would go if she asked. And she would have to ask.


	4. Chapter 4

Although the garage door was open, she knocked on it to make herself known. The sound was so soft that it didn't startle him—he barely heard it, in fact—but he stood abruptly at the sight of her. He'd lost himself in his task, knowing the work would take his mind off the shock of seeing her, then seeing her faint, having to carry her to her room and grappling with what it would mean to work for her family.

He didn't realize until that moment that he was hoping she would come.

Whatever happened in the future, from this point forward, she wasn't going to pretend they had no history.

Tom stood with his arms at his side, as he would have for any member of the family, not knowing what else to do. They took each other in for a long moment, and when Tom's eyes fell on her hands, which she was wringing unconsciously, he smiled.

_She's nervous._

Something about that reassured him.

"I don't suppose you remember me," she said.

Tom didn't answer right away. At first he thought she might be joking— _how could she possibly think I'd forget_ —but he was moved by the sincerity of the question.

"Of course, I do."

Tom wanted to say something else, something clever that would put her at ease, but the air was too thick.

Sybil recognized his hesitation. She was the daughter of his employer. He was letting her dictate the terms of whatever happened between them, in deference to her position at least in some measure.

"How did you find me? That is—did you? Did you look for me?"

Tom shook his head. "You never told me your family name. I was looking for work. Mr. Murray put out a notice in London, and . . . and here I am." After a moment he added, with a shrug, "Coincidence."

Sybil nodded and looked down, and Tom wondered whether what seemed like disappointment in her face was just that or his own wishful thinking.

"I did think about you, though."

Sybil looked up at this.

"When Mr. Carson said your name, I remembered that you said you were from Yorkshire. But even then, I could hardly believe it would be you. I'd half convinced myself that whole day was a dream. It's not the kind of thing that happens to me every day, believe it or not."

There was a sparkle in his eye—something of the charm he'd shown off on the Underground that fateful day. Sybil felt her cheeks warm at the oblique reference to the kiss they'd shared. Feeling rather bold, she said, playfully lifting her nose in the air, "Well, don't feel special because you were the third or fourth bloke I'd kissed that day."

Tom grinned. "So upper class girls do like to have their fun."

Their eyes met again, and Sybil's smile faltered at the reference to her position. She took a step toward him and said more quietly, "I'd never done anything like that before, actually. None of it—gone out on my own in London like that, the Underground . . . you."

Tom waited, sensing she wanted to say more.

"I made a joke just now, but honestly, I'd hate for you to think of me as a person who . . . has fun with people without thinking of their feelings."

Tom smiled. "I don't."

Sybil took a deep breath and looked around the garage.

Noticing, Tom said, "As garages go, it's rather nice. I've worked in much smaller, dirtier ones, that's for sure."

"I've never been in here before either," Sybil responded. "I've never been much of anywhere, really."

"But you _want_ to go somewhere. The will is what matters. How else would _I_ have gotten this far."

Sybil smiled. "Is this where you want to go?"

Tom looked into her eyes, deciphering what she meant by "this." Finally, he shook his head.

Sybil's head turned, hearing footsteps in the gravel outside.

"This is just a stop on the way to something else," Tom continued. "That's the truth for both of us, isn't in?"

Sybil turned back to Tom and thought before answering, "I hope so."

Then, knowing her mother might notice her absence if she stayed any longer, Sybil turned to go.

"Lady Sybil?"

She turned again, her shoulders down slightly, sad that in that moment she couldn't ask him to call her something else—anything else. She wouldn't risk a job he obviously wanted and needed.

"Yes, Branson?"

"I don't know where you're going. Maybe you don't know either, but in the meantime, you might need a chauffeur's help. I hope you don't mind that it's me."

She smiled, hearing what he was really saying: _I hope you don't mind that I'm here._

"I don't need a chauffeur's help," she replied. "But I'd like a friend."

Sybil turned to leave again. At the door, she said, "I _am_ glad you found me. I know you said you weren't looking, but I'm glad you found me."

"I am too."

When she was gone, Tom sat back down again and took several long deep breaths. When he'd come back down from her room earlier, he could barely tell which end was up and wondered what she would say and even whether the job would still be his by the end of the day. Perhaps they weren't meant for the grand romance he'd allowed himself to daydream about from time to time since the day he'd met her, but that was all fantasy anyway. He'd take a real friendship with her over that any day.

In truth, it was the best he could have hoped for.

That friendship would sustain them through years of war.

Because of it, eventually, she would talk to him about what led her to the Underground that day, about the man she'd disappointed in the process of rescuing herself, and about the kind of life she really wanted.

Because of it, eventually, he would choose to stay in service many more years than he had ever planned to do, waiting for her to be ready for that life to start.

Because of it, eventually, they would fall in love.


End file.
